


Unwanted

by xylodemon



Category: NCIS
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't need to know his name is waiting on the tip of her tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwanted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Velvetwhip (Gabrielle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielle/gifts).



> This is incredibly, incredibly dub-con.

The gunshot cracks the silence like a whip.

"Women should never get involved in politics. It is a waste of beauty."

Kate tries to look at something besides his face, besides his perfect hair and perfect teeth. He laughs with his whole body, his shoulders squared and taut, his head tilted back to expose the long line of his throat, and her fingers itch for the gun still cradled in his hand. She wants to push it under his chin until he bruises, wants to see his eyes widen as the cold metal slides along the angle of his jaw.

It wouldn't diffuse the tension at the office -- Gibbs broods like a wounded animal, holds his grudges too tightly and too close to his heart -- but it would settled her mind a little, would ease the frenetic ache hidden in her chest and the constant, sullen heat between her legs. She's tired of the chase, tired of seeing the way his mouth curves around her name every time she closes her eyes.

"Caitlin. Call your old friends at the Secret Service. I will tell them all they need to know."

Ari offers her the phone like a gift, but she hesitates, doesn't want to touch him.

"My Hamas are well trained," he says quietly. "They will kill your president and mine."

"Your president?"

"I'm Israeli." His smile is too quick, too broad. "Mossad."

A sudden breeze pushes through the yard, curls around her bare shoulders and blows the walnut shells into her lap.

"I don't believe you."

"I don't need you to believe me, Caitlin." He's standing at her side now, crowding her against the bench, and she flinches when his hand ghosts up her arm and over her collarbone. "I just need you to make the call."

Her elbow scrapes the edge of the table. "Don't touch me."

"That's no way to talk," he says, and his mouth curves the same way it did in autopsy, the same way it does in her dreams. His fingers are warm against her cheek, and he presses his thumb to the break in her lip. "Let's go inside. After you make the call, I will take you back to D.C."

Ari pulls her to her feet by her arm, guides her across they yard with her gun waiting at the well of her spine. The huge house is empty now, feels cavernous and cold; she can hear Ari breathing, and her heels echo loudly off the hardwood floor.

"Here," he says, slipping the phone into he hand. "Call your friends."

She has no real alternatives; her gun is at his hip and she's a hundred miles from anywhere, from anyone she knows. "What if I don't?"

"Caitlin." He palms the nape of her neck, slides his thumb over the thin skin behind her ear. "We can't work together if you don't learn to trust me."

"We'll never work together," she says sharply. "Gibbs will kill you first."

He laughs into her hair, and she closes her eyes as his lips brush her temple. "Gibbs isn't here. It's just you and I."

"Then _I'll_ kill you."

"You could have killed me in autopsy."

"I should've killed you in autopsy," she says, shrugging his fingers away from the collar of her shirt. "I won't make the same mistake again."

Ari smiles against her cheek, his mouth too close to her ear. She allows it long enough to catch her breath, then swings her elbow into his gut hard, spins and throws her fist against his chin. His harsh grunt slices through the silence like a knife, but he doesn't seem surprised; he laughs again, throaty and hoarse, catches both her wrists in his free hand and bears her down onto the couch.

He kneels in front of her, rests his gun hand on her knee. If he squeezes the trigger now, the bullet would take her right between the breasts.

"Caitlin."

"Bastard." She jerks as his other hand skims up her leg, his fingers curling in the dip behind her knee. "Let me go."

He leans in close to her, pushing in between her legs. His mouth is warm and wet as it slides up her throat, over her jaw. "Soon."

"I was wrong about the other women." She fists her hand in the collar of his shirt, but the couch is too soft and too deep; she can't sit up, can't find the leverage she needs to really shove him away. "You don't pay them. You force them."

"Force is such an unpleasant word," he says, setting the gun on the floor. "It's just a matter of persuasion." He pushes her skirt up slowly, his thumbs hooked in the hem. "You did ask me to be a charming host."

"I did not."

Ari sits back on his heels a little, enough to look at her. "Perhaps you didn't ask." His hands pause at her knees, holding her legs apart, and she feels open and exposed. "But it's what you want."

He runs his hands up over her thighs, skin on skin, then strokes her through her underwear, his fingers tracing the outline of her lips. She tries to squirm away from him, but there isn't anywhere to go, and he follows her, pushing her back into the cushions as he mouths at her neck, her ear. She's embarrassingly wet, she can feel the slow, spreading warmth slick between her legs, and he feels it too, laughing as he thumbs beneath her underwear.

"Take these off."

"No." She starts shifting to one side, but he pins her with a firm hand on her hip. "I won't."

"Are you going to play nice, Caitlin, or do I need to get the gun?"

She doesn't help him, but she doesn't fight him -- she can't, not until she's closer to the gun. She lets him hitch her skirt higher, lets him lift her hips. He eases her underwear off slowly, an inch at a time, pausing to touch every bit of skin they pass with his fingers, his mouth, his tongue. He leaves them hanging off her ankle, and he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the knee.

"I hate you."

"You shouldn't," he says easily, mapping the slope of her breast with his knuckle. She bites the inside of her cheek as her nipples pull tight; she refuses to give him the satisfaction. "I'm just helping you have a good time."

"Bastard."

He slides his fingers up enough to get them wet, then tucks them into his mouth, all curling tongue and a sharp flash of teeth. "You've had a hard day, Caitlin."

"No thanks to you."

"Just relax and enjoy this."

Ari pushes two fingers inside her, too slow, too gentle, smiling against her mouth when her body arches toward him without her permission. He works her almost lazily, fingers slipping up and in, just twisting before dragging back out, and he watches her face as heat rushes to her cheeks, as her breath catches and flutters in the back of her throat. He fucks into her again, turns his hand until his thumb is just under her clit, and she tilts her head back, doesn't want him to see how wide her eyes are, how red her face is.

He's teasing her, trying to pull a noise from her, wants to make her ask for it. She swallows every sigh, every moan, because she doesn't want to give him that. She can't stop the restless shift of her hips, the way her hands are curling in the cushions, but he doesn't need to know his name is waiting on the tip of her tongue.

"Why so quiet, Caitlin?" He brushes his thumb over her clit, his mouth wet and open at her throat. "An artist likes to know his efforts are appreciated."

"They're not."

He pulls back and hooks his hands under her knees, dragging her closer, spreading her open. She stretches both hands to the floor, hoping she'll fumble onto her gun, but Ari is closer to it, quicker than she is. He grabs it and bats her away in the same fluid motion, holds it flat against the side of her knee as he hides a hot, slippery kiss on the inside of her thigh.

"It's yours," he says, tossing it onto the couch, just out of her reach. "All you had to do was ask."

The barrel is less than an inch from her fingertips.

She tries to roll for it, but Ari catches her by the hips, pinning her down. He kisses the top of her knee, the inside of her wrist, sucks her fingers into his mouth one at a time. She's shaking by the time he finally licks into her, a slick slide up over her clit as he pushes his fingers back inside her. She feels it everywhere -- at the back of her neck, in the low of her gut, at the base of her spine.

Kate has dreamt about his mouth -- about hitting it, about smashing his perfect teeth with quickly thrown fist, but also of kissing it, of having it where it is right now, between her wet, wet legs with his fingers and tongue inside her.

She comes hard, silently, her eyes closed and her fists clenched so tightly her fingernails dig deep red crescents into the palms of her hands.

"Caitlin."

When she opens her eyes, he's sitting back on his heels, one hand warm on her thigh and the other inside his open pants.

"No." She reaches for her gun again, but he grabs her by the arm, his fingers digging almost hard enough to bruise. "Don't."

Ari takes a sharp, ragged breath. "I won't." He shoves his pants down to his knees, wrapping his hand around his dick; it's long and hard and she doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to want it. "If I give you everything now, you will never come back for more."

She slaps him, the sound echoing through the empty house. He just laughs and pulls her closer, strokes himself hard and fast as he drags his mouth over her cheek and jaw. He kisses her then, all lewd slick tongue and his fingers knotted in her hair, and she catches his lip between her teeth, bites down until she tastes blood.

He comes all over his fist, the couch, her thighs.

"Take me back to D.C."

Ari smiles at her, like he did in autopsy, like her gun isn't nudging under his chin. "I will. As soon as you make that phone call."


End file.
